‘I agree, Majesty. Any more than we can afford to lose men in attacks by your horse-archers on an enemy protected by fortifications. If I had not been able to persuade the Parthians to surrender, then I am sure we would have lost at least as many men in taking the fort as I now have to send back to Antioch to guard the prisoners. And how many more of your men would have become casualties?’
‘Tribune Cato, there is a way to ensure that you do not have to deplete your ranks, or mine.’
Cato narrowed his eyes. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Majesty?’
‘Kill the prisoners. All of them. That way there is no possibility of any of them escaping to raise the alarm, and no need to assign any men to guard them.’
‘I gave my word, Majesty. Their lives will be spared.’
‘Your word?’ Rhadamistus laughed. ‘What is a word? A mere sound that is gone the instant it is spoken. If the enemy think your word matters, then they are fools indeed, and deserve to die. This is war, Tribune. All that matters is surviving long enough to win. Everything else is a mere detail. Kill them, and let’s continue into Armenia.’
‘No,’ Cato replied firmly. ‘My word matters to me. And it matters to Rome. I am an officer acting in the name of my emperor. If I give my word and break it, then I dishonour not just myself, but the very name of Rome. I would not be forgiven for that.’
‘Who is to know? I will not speak of it. The only other witness is my servant, Narses. If I command it, he will not speak of your breach of faith. But if it pleases you, I will have his tongue cut out, or have him disposed of.’
Cato felt a wave of revulsion sweep through him and it was a struggle to keep his composure as he swallowed to ensure he spoke calmly and clearly. ‘I would not ask that of you, Majesty, as I need his services as a translator. In which case his tongue will be required.’
Rhadamistus pursed his lips and nodded. ‘This is true. Very well, my point still stands. Who will ever know that your word was broken, eh?’
‘I will, and that is enough.’ Cato was weary of this exchange, and greatly tired by the night’s exertions. ‘The Parthians will not be killed.’
Rhadamistus sniffed with disdain and straightened up in his saddle. ‘As you wish, Tribune. But I fear you will come to regret your decision. And now I must see to the burial of my dead.’ He nodded curtly, gave his reins a sharp tug and turned his mount back towards his waiting men and spurred it into a gallop.
Cato let out a sigh of relief. ‘Did you follow that?’
‘Most of it,’ said Macro. ‘Not sure that I care much for our ally’s disregard for Roman honour.’
‘He’s got a point, from a purely pragmatic point of view,’ Cato reflected. ‘But if people in this world start breaking their word, then we can kiss goodbye to any treaties or trust of any kind. That’s not the kind of world in which I’d be happy to live.’
‘Nor me,’ Macro muttered. ‘Guess we’d better be very careful in our dealings with Rhadamistus from now on. I’d trust the bastard just as far as I could comfortably shit him.’
Cato laughed, grateful for the release of the tension that had been building inside him. ‘Better be careful what you eat then.’
He pointed to the fort. ‘Take four sections, go in there and disarm the prisoners. And see if there’s anything in there we can use to secure the Parthians. Chains, rope, whatever comes to hand. Narses can translate for you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get the siege weapons broken down and loaded back on to the wagons. I’m going back across the river to fetch supplies from Arbelis and then bring up the baggage train. With luck, we’ll be able to resume marching this afternoon. We’ll be in enemy territory from now on. Best we strike out for the Armenian capital as quickly as we can and get this business over with. I’ll be a lot happier when we no longer have any dealings with our Iberian friend.’
Macro cast a glance towards Rhadamistus and nodded with feeling. ‘I fear he’s going to prove as much of a danger to us as the bloody Parthians . . .’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Macro led his men over the packed earth ramp and shoved the ruined gates aside. He paused to survey the interior of the fort. Most of the battlements had been smashed in and large sections of the walkway had collapsed. Several bodies lay sprawled over the debris. Some of the rocks shot from the onagers had landed amongst the horse lines and struck down at least twenty of the Parthians’ mounts. As many men were injured and being tended to by their comrades. Macro strode forward, aware that every eye was on him, but he felt no fear. If any of the enemy attempted treachery Macro would deal with them without mercy.
‘Tell them to hand over their weapons. Swords, daggers, bows, arrows, axes, the lot. I want them put over there.’ He indicated the well. ‘Anyone who tries to conceal any weapon will go down the well and be left to rot. Make sure they get that.’
As Narses translated, Macro ordered the four sections of Praetorians to surround the interior of the fort and the Romans trotted into position and turned their shields towards the enemy and held their spears ready.
‘Keep a good watch on them, lads. If anyone tries to make a break for it then cut ’em down, no questions asked.’
Narses finished talking and for a moment all was still, and none of the Parthians made a move. Macro strode over to the nearest group and thrust his vine cane towards a tall soldier standing defiantly with his arms crossed.
‘You’re the first, my friend,’ he said loudly so all could hear. Even if they did not understand his words, there would be no mistake about his intent. ‘Take your sword and that gaudy-looking bow case of yours and drop them by the well.’ He jerked his thumb to emphasise the direction. ‘NOW!’
The Parthian stared back and stood his ground, unmoving.
‘Very well, then.’ Macro stepped forward and reached for the man’s sword handle. At once the Parthian slipped his arms apart and his hand snapped towards his scabbard. Macro’s move had been a feint, and he had fully expected this response and now made his enemy pay for his defiance. Up shot the vine cane, the gnarled knob at the top slamming under the man’s chin and jerking his head back. Macro followed up by throwing his weight behind his spare hand as his fist struck the Parthian on the side of the jaw. He staggered back a step and collapsed on to his knees. Bracing himself, Macro delivered a firm kick to the man’s collarbone and he landed heavily on his back, dazed and winded. Calmly helping himself to his victim’s sword and bow case, Macro handed it to Narses and then glared round at the remaining Parthians.
‘Who wants to be next?’
Before Narses had even finished translating, the first of the enemy hurried towards the well. More followed, regarding the Roman centurion warily as they passed by. The light clatter of deposited weapons echoed off the walls as the pile steadily built up. With a nod of satisfaction Macro turned and beckoned to the optio of his century.
‘Tertius!’
The Praetorian trotted over. ‘Sir?’
‘Take over. Once the last of them has handed over his weapons, start binding them. Use whatever you can. If need be, you can tear strips from the clothing on the bodies. Just as long as they’re secure and won’t be able to make a break for it when they are marched back to Antioch.’
The optio’s expression brightened. ‘They’re to be sold as slaves?’
Macro nodded. ‘A nice little bonus for the lads, eh? And the campaign has barely started. Carry on.’
He took a last look over the prisoners, daring any man to defy him, then turned about and made his way out of the fort and over the open ground towards the earthworks surrounding the battery. The other six sections of his century and Metellus’s crews were standing or squatting around the siege engines, cheerfully celebrating their easy victory with wine and good-humoured conversation. Macro scowled as he tapped his cane sharply against his greave.
‘And what in Hades is this? A fucking public holiday? Well no one told me about it, ladies. Now get off your arses and
get this kit packed on to the wagons.’
The Praetorians leaped up, hastily replacing the stoppers of their canteens, and set to work knocking out the wooden pegs and working the timber frames loose before carrying them off to the wagons behind the battery. Macro paced up and down making sure that no one slacked off. It was too bad that the men had lost a night’s sleep, and they might curse him for being driven on, but he had little sympathy. In fact, he was inclined towards quiet satisfaction as he watched the emperor’s most pampered soldiers being obliged to work as hard as the men of the legions.
It would be good for them, Macro told himself. There was nothing like proper soldiering for making proper soldiers and he was pleased with the way the men of the Second Cohort were shaping up. Despite his doubts, they had performed well in Spain the previous year, and he had few complaints about their professional approach to this latest venture. He was even inclined to hope that one day they might match the standard of his beloved Second Legion – the unit he had first served with, and where he had met Cato. The memory of his first encounter with the scrawny youth who was far too educated and unworldly made Macro smile. He would never have guessed that young Cato would rise to command a cohort. He had even doubted whether the recruit would survive his first fight. But Macro had been proved wrong and he had long since learned to respect Cato’s judgement and soldierly qualities.
He paused, mid-stride, conscious that he was still smiling, and looked around sharply, catching the eye of one of the men nearby. ‘What are you gawping at, my lad? Got a thing for centurions, have you?’
‘No, sir.’ The Praetorian tried to hide his amusement.
‘Are you saying you don’t like me?’
‘Yes, sir. I mean . . .’
Macro leaned his head closer to the man, eyes wide with staged hostility. ‘You don’t like me? Me, who treats his men like he was their own fucking mother? What kind of ungrateful bastard are you?’
The Praetorian’s amusement evaporated like morning dew in the desert and he opened and closed his mouth helplessly as he struggled to compose a reply that did not deepen his centurion’s anger.
‘Pah! I’ll be watching you, my lad.’ Macro straightened up. ‘Now put your bloody back into it and get that bolt-thrower broken down. Before you break my bloody heart any further.’
He stalked off with a scowling expression, daring anyone else to meet his gaze as he passed by. As the sun rose and warmed the arid terrain the siege weapons were dismantled and loaded on to their wagons. Over by the fort the Iberian horsemen walked their mounts towards the river so that they could be watered. Macro watched them for a moment and clicked his tongue. They were fine riders, and fine archers, no doubt. But their prince was as foolhardy as he was courageous, and Macro had served long enough to know how dangerous a combination of qualities that could be. Hopefully Cato had Rhadamistus in hand now and there would be no more unnecessary loss of men in futile attacks. It would be a relief when the man was securely on his throne and the Romans could leave Armenia in the hands of their ally. For Macro that would mean a return to the arms of Petronella, a prospect that warmed his heart and firmed his resolve to complete his mission as soon as possible.
Once the last of the siege engines had been dismantled and loaded on to the wagons, amidst much cracking of whips and braying of mules, Macro ordered the siege train to move back down to the track a short distance from the fort. The Praetorians took up their shields and spears and marched alongside the vehicles. It was then that Macro noticed a movement on the wall of the fort and stepped to one side of the dust being stirred by the heavy wheels of the wagons. Now he could clearly make out one of the Praetorians, bare-headed and unarmed, clambering over the crumbling battlements and dropping down to the base of the wall. He hit the ground and rolled out of sight into the ditch. An instant later, Macro saw the man scramble over the lip of the ditch and come running towards them.
Macro felt his guts give a slight lurch and at once he filled his lungs and bellowed the orders for the siege train to halt and then for his century to form up.
‘Stay here!’ he shouted, then trotted to meet the man half running, half stumbling from the fort. They met some fifty paces from the siege train, as the man drew up, gasping for breath.
‘What’s happening, man?’ Macro demanded. ‘Speak up.’
‘It’s them . . . Iberians, sir. They’re killing the prisoners.’
Macro looked beyond him towards the fort. In the absence of the grinding rumble of the wagons’ wheels he could hear the distant shouts and cries for the first time. He grasped the Praetorian’s shoulders and gave him a savage shake. ‘What in fucking Hades is going on? I left Tertius in charge. Where is he?’
‘In . . . the fort, sir. With the . . . rest of the lads.’
‘Then why are the prisoners being killed?’
‘Rhadamistus, sir. He came into the fort with some of his men. Went up to the optio and some of the lads with him. Then . . . quick as you like, they had ’em pinned . . . knives at their throats. Ordered the rest of us to lower our spears or . . . they’d cut the throats of the optio and the others. Tertius told ’em to do as he said.’
‘Did he now?’ Macro glowered. ‘And then?’
The Praetorian tried to take even breaths, so that he could speak clearly. ‘Rhadamistus had his men bring the prisoners to him one at a time, and he cut their heads off with his sword. I had been taking a piss behind one of the stables when the trouble started. Knew I had to get out and find you, sir. Came across the entrance to one of the watchtowers so I climbed up, crawled along the wall until I found a gap I could use to get down the outside.’
‘All right.’ Macro nodded. ‘Good work. Join the wagons.’
The Praetorian saluted and ran off, leaving Macro staring towards the fort. The screams carried to his ears clearly now. He must act at once. Glancing over his shoulder he raised his arm. ‘First Century! On me, at the double!’
He ran across the open ground, hearing the drumming of boots and the chink of loose kit behind him. Ahead, he saw a figure rise up above the gatehouse, watching the Romans for a moment before turning to gesticulate down into the heart of the fort. As he ran, Macro switched the vine cane to his left hand and drew his sword. Then, conscious of the danger of drawn weapons making matters worse, he returned it to the scabbard and gritted his teeth furiously. Macro and his Praetorians were no more than fifty paces from the shattered gates when they saw one of the Iberians clamber on to the wall to one side, spear in one hand and a fist full of hair in the other from which swayed a dripping head. He planted the spearhead securely into the rubble and then jammed the head on to the iron point of the butt, before standing back to admire his work. More of Rhadamistus’s men appeared along the wall, each carrying a spear and head as they proceeded to follow their comrade’s example.
‘Fuckin’ barbarians,’ one of the Praetorians behind Macro grunted.
‘Shut your mouth!’ Macro snapped over his shoulder. ‘No one breathes a word. No one but me.’
He halted the century just in front of the ramp and had the men close up. Through the open gate he could see a pile of corpses heaped in the courtyard before the doors of the barracks. A pair of Iberians dragged another headless body, bound hand and foot, to the heap and dumped it on top. Macro sighed inwardly and muttered to himself: ‘Time to put a stop to this.’
‘Advance!’
At the head of his men he marched across the ramp and under the arch above the gates. On the far side he was met with a scene from a slaughterhouse. To the left the surviving Parthians were crowded together at spearpoint, while the Romans stood helplessly to the right, also under guard. To one side of the gatehouse was a raised platform, waist high, from where the garrison’s commander had once reviewed his men. Now Rhadamistus stood in his place, surrounded by heads and pools of blood. Even as Macro watched, two of the Iberians thrust another prisoner on to his knees. The Parthian was wailing pitifully as he struggled and had to be held
down. The prince grasped the man’s hair in his left hand and pulled hard, forcing his exposed neck down. Then his sword rose high, paused for a beat and slashed down in a blur. Head and body parted in a burst of crimson with a sound like an axe head burying itself in wet sand. Rhadamistus, splattered with gore, smiled with satisfaction and tossed the head aside as he caught sight of Macro and his men. Before he could speak, Macro turned and shouted an order to the Praetorians under guard.
‘Stop standing there. Pick your kit up and fall in! Move!’
His men hesitated briefly before Tertius pushed his way between their Iberian guards and strode towards the shields, spears and swords piled at the side of the barracks. One of the Iberians fitted an arrow to his bowstring and swung round to take aim at the optio’s back.
‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ Macro roared and ran across to the man and slashed his vine cane down on the bow arm, and the weapon fell from the Iberian’s numbed fingers. Macro lashed out again at the man’s head and he staggered back. At once his comrades raised their spears and bows, but Rhadamistus barked an order in a loud, booming voice that echoed back off the walls of the fort. His men backed away and the Praetorians hurried to follow the optio and arm themselves before they joined their comrades at Macro’s back.
There was a brief stillness in the fort as the Romans and Iberians stood in silent confrontation either side of the heap of Parthian corpses. High above, a handful of buzzards spiralled lazily as they waited for their chance to descend and feed.
‘Tertius,’ Macro spoke quietly, ‘go and find the tribune. Tell him what’s happened. He should be with the baggage wagons, close to the river by now. Be quick about it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The optio turned and ran out through the gatehouse.
Rhadamistus stepped down from the platform and strode casually towards Macro, then paused at the pile of corpses to clean his blade on the clothes of one of his victims before he sheathed the sword. He stood in front of Macro and folded his arms.
The Blood of Rome Page 13
